"No, indeed? I fail to see why that should surprise you."

It is difficult, even for a Servant, to debate as equals with someone when you are scrambling across the ground in every way you can manage to dodge a rain of rocket fire. But that is what Saber puts her energy into anyway, because what else is she going to do? Counterattack is, if not impossible, wildly impractical without betraying all of her goals and motivations. What is she meant to do, ride the explosions into the sky where she hid her attack helicopter? 

Should she, should she... reveal her trump card? Pull Lancer across the field to her with the grappling hook she keeps hidden in her elbow? Open her mouth and spit lasers? Ah, perhaps she should don her summertime beret and mow down the field with its attendant SMG? If only she were not an artificial Valkyrie carrying the title on behalf of a mortal such a thing might have been possible.

If only.

"When a sword is forged there is often very little to distinguish it from its peers. A remarkable blade is one that doesn't shatter when you split a man's skull with it. If it holds an edge past that the smith should have songs sung about them. But really, what is one sharpened piece of metal from another? Nothing, except what a man has done with it."

She cannot run fast enough to keep entirely from being burned. She cannot block with anywhere near the degree of skill required to parry every bit of shrapnel and debris. Thus, she bleeds. Because flexibility is not a replacement for pinpoint shapeshifting or teleportation or invincible flesh bathed in the blood of a dragon or even properly drawn runes to protect the body from arrows. Skill at arms did not measure up to an entire world filled until it was spilling over with clever tricks. 

A tactician? A battle sage? A swordmaster? A sea monster that had twisted herself into the shape of a human for the sake of love and admiration? Ha! These things counted for nothing. Every piece of her had grown obsolete before she could ever be materialized. She was now ordinary, and the whole world and its brilliant peacock feathers of destruction had been arrayed against her ahead of time. 

"But the sword that survives in the hand of a warrior through ten battles becomes special. The sword that slays a monster becomes famous for it. To rush into battle alongside the weapon that slew a dragon gives every man that knows the tale the strength to move mountains. If your lance was as effective as you say it is only natural that legends would spring up around it. You can only take issue with the shape of that story, if a better told legend might have made men stronger. You can only question if clinging to specific divinity invites weakness or strength in the heart that cradles it. But that they should refuse to classify it as merely a serviceable weapon is a credit to their lot, whatever you may say."

Direct fire? Very well. Saber tears the wine flask off her own spear and guzzles thirstily from its neck. Head tilted up in appreciation for the drink, every bit as distracted by libation as Lancer is by reading, she hurls her spear. Saber's legend is not that of a demigod or a world famous hero. Her deeds were replicated elsewhere in the world, and often even surpassed by the true shining lights of humanity. She was merely a monster that became a weapon for the love of a great king. And a weapon who transformed herself into a king for a love of her people when they had no more need for a weapon. Nevertheless, she [i]was[/i] a warrior. A renowned one, worthy of every treasure buried with her and every lie told about her by the people she'd supported even beyond her death. And that was enough to make an ancient javelin more than a match for an unrespected munition.

When the explosion clears, Saber wipes her lips on the back of her wrist. She gestures for another weapon, bleeding only where the rain had kissed her previously.

"Yours, however, I believe has earned its reputation for plainness. You have a keen eye, Lancer."